On Her Own
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #30 The rift between Spock and his daughter T'Beth seems final when she leaves school to join the Border Patrol. What sort of adventures await her?


Basic. It was everything Cristabeth had hoped it would be. She loved the challenges of physical training—the runs, the hikes, and the drills. She enjoyed working her muscles against an opponent in hand-to-hand combat as she pushed her body to the limit. She had always been stronger than full-blooded humans, but day-by-day she could feel herself growing even more powerful and confident. There were other lessons, too. Military protocol and procedures. Survival skills and weaponry. And through it all—perhaps best of all, she learned to wear the rugged, functional fatigues of the Border Patrol proudly.

Each day's tightly packed schedule left little time for reflection, and when night fell over the barracks she was too spent to do any more than drop onto her bunk and sleep. Occasionally she dreamt. She would awaken, gasping, from angry confrontations with her father. The scenes changed, but the content never varied—first the bitter words spewing, and then she would use her fists on him. Afterward, she had trouble going back to sleep. On those occasions she rose quietly from her bunk and gazed out the nearest window at the Texas moon, or the rain, fighting a somber mood that threatened to overwhelm her. But it was senseless to feel homesick for a home she never had.

After graduating from Basic, she left for specialized training at a gunnery school in Doctor McCoy's native state of Georgia. A fascinating array of sub-warp fighter mock-ups and simulators awaited her. It was as if she had been turned loose in a toy store—each day was an adventure.

Her quick mind and enthusiasm drew the attention of her instructors, but so did a bloody fight that marred her record. A fellow trainee had accused her of being Captain Spock's daughter and pointed out that she even _looked_ like him. "No," she had insisted, she was part Romulan, not Vulcan. When he continued to press her, she had gone into a rage.

The secrecy with which she guarded her background from her companions was bound to stir up rumors, but she had no intention of admitting any relationship to the famous Spock of Starfleet. There had been no contact of any kind between her and her despised father since the week she turned eighteen, left home, and went straight to the recruitment office. She had stayed with Aunt Doris until reporting for Basic under her birth name, Cristabeth Janis Lemoine. She wanted no further part of the S'chn T'gai family.

Georgia's peach trees were blooming when Cristabeth left for advanced training at Starbase 12 in the Gamma 400 star system. There she began her first practice flights aboard real fighters. Their speed and maneuverability thrilled her. Harnessed into a gunner's chair, she felt her stomach flip as the craft swooped crazily through Space in mock battles. The position demanded quick reflexes and steady nerves, but to her it felt like a game. She was proud of the fact that her scores were consistently among the very highest in her group.

Soon the long months of training would be at an end. Soon she would be deemed ready for active duty and receive her first assignment. Now, occasionally, there was time to relax a little and think about everything she had accomplished. Most pleasing of all was the realization that she had done it completely on her own. It almost made her wish that her father were here so she could rub his overbearing nose in it.

But what was she thinking? Her successes would not be enough for _him_. What was a lowly Patrol gunner to someone who had been in charge of a starship?

Such an angry ache filled her that she barely had time to react as an opposing team's fighter made a sudden appearance. She mock-phasered it into make-believe Space debris. While she was silently congratulating herself, her fighter swung around. Through the viewport Cristabeth glimpsed a Constitution-class starship on a distant plane of orbit. She gave it a quick sweep with her sensor beam.

"Federation Starfleet," reported the silken computer voice, "U.S.S. Enterprise NC1701-A, Captain James T. Kirk commanding."

As she stared at the starship in shock, an enemy fighter slipped past her defenses and blew her into oblivion.

oooo

Cristabeth sat with her fellow trainees in the briefing room. As the instructor worked his way down the list of commendations and reprimands, she prepared for the humiliation that was sure to come.

"Gunner Lemoine," he said at last.

She rose at attention.

"What happened out there today?"

Cristabeth felt everyone's eyes boring into her. "I…I was distracted, sir."

"Well, gunner," he said smoothly, "I hope it was a pleasant distraction, because it cost the Patrol a very expensive piece of equipment and the lives of everyone aboard it—including yours. Those people were depending on you…and you failed them." He ordered her crew to stand. "Look at them, gunner. Because of your carelessness, they are now dead."

Her face burning, Cristabeth turned and met the pitying gazes of her crewmates. She had seen the instructor inflict this exercise on slackers before, but until today she had never realized just how painfully effective it was.

"Dismissed," he declared, "except for you, Lemoine. You're to stay here and compose individual, handwritten letters of apology to the families of each crew member you let die."

oooo

Cristabeth was finishing her morbid assignment when someone entered at the rear of the room and slowly walked up beside her. She raised her head, and her heart lurched in recognition.

"Jim!" she breathed.

Captain Kirk gazed down at her with an amused expression. "Kept after school, gunner?"

She abruptly remembered that she was angry with him. He had opposed her entry into the Border Patrol; he had taken her father's side. He thought she was a fool.

Rising, she walked to the front of the room and put her completed letters on the instructor's desk. Without looking at Jim she said, "I saw your ship. How long are you here for?"

"A few more hours." He came up and put his hand on her shoulder. "I'd like to spend them with you."

Her heart pounded hard and fast. Turning, she met the melting warmth of his hazel eyes. "Why? You'll just tell me what a terrible mistake I've made."

"Have you?" He searched her face. "If you think so, I can try and get you out of here…"

"No!" She backed up, and his hand fell from her shoulder. "I don't need your help. I'm doing just fine. You can tell that to your Vulcan friend the next time you two chat."

"Spock doesn't talk about you."

Cristabeth pretended that she didn't care. "That's right—it's all about Simon now, isn't it? The precious little thing."

"You hurt your father deeply," Jim said.

"Good. I'm glad. That makes us just about even."

He shook his head. "Look, I didn't come here to stir up hard feelings. I came to take you out for dinner—that is, if you can get away."

oooo

She'd had a pass coming. And after today, Cristabeth felt as if she could use a few hours away from the barracks. Freshly showered and wearing a dress uniform, she joined Kirk at a table in a popular restaurant off base. The food was delicious—far better than the fare they dished out in the Patrol. She ate her onion-smothered steak with relish, recklessly topping it off with a rich chocolate dessert.

The dinner reminded her of the times she and Jim had spent together on Vulcan, before he returned to Earth to face a court martial. But a lot had happened since those relatively innocent days when she was a young teen and Jim was still an admiral. Starting to feel the effects of the sugar, Cristabeth gazed at him. Funny, all the guys she had toyed with this last year and a half, and here sat the only man who had ever really mattered—right within reach.

"Dinner was great," she said, admitting, "I don't want the evening to end."

"It's not over yet," Jim unexpectedly replied.

He took her up the street to the new holo-suite parlor. She'd heard about them, but had never been inside one and neither had he. It was one of the first in the sector, and so exorbitantly expensive that there was little waiting before a room opened.

Once inside, Cristabeth discovered that this new technology was a far cry from the insubstantial holographic images she had seen projected on the Enterprise recreation deck. Developed by the Vantage Corporation of theme park fame, these creations were as solid and pleasing to the senses as the real thing. Excited, she switched back and forth through the program menu until her head—already dizzy from sugar alcohol—felt like it was going to float off her shoulders.

Jim laughed and wrestled the control from her hand. Selecting a pleasant parkland scene from Earth, he sat on a bench and pretended to be stern. "Alright, young lady. It stays here for five whole minutes."

Cristabeth dropped down beside him. "Thank you," she said suddenly.

He looked at her, surprised. "For what? This?"

A cool, fragrant breeze stirred her dark hair. She felt the warmth of his leg where it brushed hers, and her control began to slip. "No, Jim," she said, touching his hand, letting the Sy energy spill haphazardly from her fingertips. "Because you haven't spent all evening lecturing me—because I know you probably would have liked to."

"T'Beth," he said low, and she did not mind in the least that he had used that name.

For a moment it was as if time rolled back, and they were still at his cousin's farm in Iowa. She could tell that he was interested. She was almost nineteen. What was there to stand in the way? Slipping her hand behind his neck, she drew him closer and kissed his mouth. His arms went around her and he returned the kiss fully. She no longer cared that her Sy power broadcast everything she was feeling—the power was hers to use, and it brought her everything she wanted. Finally, he would be hers. She would act out all the fantasies that had sent her walking countless lonely streets on countless lonely nights, when all along this was the only man she was looking for.

Suddenly Jim grabbed hold of her arms and pushed her away. He stood up. Fighting for composure, he said, "Stop it!

"Jim…" She rose to her feet. She tried to move nearer, but his hands warded her off. "Jim, you don't mean that. I _know_ you don't. I can _feel_ it."

"You don't give a damn what I feel," he heatedly accused.

"Yes, I do!"

"No, you don't. It's all just a game to you."

Frustrated and angry, Cristabeth swung at him, but he neatly caught hold of her wrist. She wrenched free and cried, "I don't need you! I can have my pick of men—and I have! Lots of them!"

"Well," Jim said tersely, "this is one man you won't have, you little hothead. And do you know why?" He paused and jerked his uniform back into order. "Because I really _do_ care about you."

Cristabeth stared at him, unbelieving. If he really cared, he would give her what she wanted. Right here and now, he would make love to her. No, it was not a matter of caring. "You only _think_ you care about me. That's the Sy of it. All you really feel for me is lust, but you're too scared of _him_ —you're too damn scared of my father to do anything about it!"

Jim slapped her across the face.

Stunned, she broke into tears. "It's true!" she sobbed.

He pointed a finger at her. "You listen to me, young lady. You may have a woman's body, but you still have one helluva lot to learn. There's more to love than sex, and there's more to sex than just using someone! You can trust me on this—I had to learn it the hard way."

Striding to the holo-suite door, he hesitated. With a sigh he turned back and looked at her. "T'Beth…" _There he was, using that name again—the name her father had given her._ "T'Beth, do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

She had lied. She did need him. And now she had pushed him away forever _._ In utter misery she sank onto the park bench, lowered her face into her hands, and wept harder.

"God help you," he said. Then he was gone.

The next morning Cristabeth awoke in her bunk, her black mood aggravated by a sugar hangover. The memory of Jim's rejection made her want to crawl into a hole. From somewhere inside her a childish voice rose to her defense. _Why should I care what he thinks of me? He doesn't know anything. He's just like my father._

Angrily she shoved Jim Kirk out of her thoughts and began the day. From now on, she would not allow anything to distract her.

oooo

Cristabeth completed advanced training first in her gunnery group, second highest in her enlistment class. Overall, she had accumulated two reprimands. It was not the perfect record she had hoped for, but better than most in this branch of the service. And it was enough to single her out in the eyes of her superiors. Suddenly she was scheduled for a special round of aptitude testing and offered a slot at the flight school back on Earth.

She almost turned down the opportunity. Pilot training meant many additional months of preparation at a time when she was chafing to get into action. And she was not at all sure that she wanted to become an officer like her father—even if it was only a lieutenant in the Border Patrol. But in the end, she headed home and reported to Flight School…and promptly fell in love.

The object of her affection was called a Stinger. The tiny, aerodynamically sleek craft seated just three—a pilot, co-pilot, and gunner. A land-to-Space vehicle, its rapid maneuverability could engage and confuse the enemy and then dip back down into the atmosphere of a planet for a controlled touchdown.

Now that Cristabeth had a new goal, she worked hard. A few days before her twentieth birthday, she graduated at the very top of her class—with honors. The ceremony was crowded with the families and friends of her classmates. As she gave her commencement address, she caught herself scanning the audience more than once, as if someone she cared about might actually be there. At the end of the ceremony she received her flight wings, and standing tall in her blue dress uniform, awaited dismissal. The instant it came, she headed off the field.

"T'Beth!" a woman shouted behind her.

She froze. No one here called her by that name. Holding tight to her emotions, she turned—and found gray-haired Aunt Doris huffing her way through the crowd. How small she looked, how welcoming with that warm, friendly smile that made her blue eyes crinkle at the corners.

Cristabeth's heart warmed in response. She felt herself smiling.

"Oh my," Doris greeted her, "what a fine speech you gave. And just look at you in that pilot's uniform. I'm so proud!"

Cristabeth accepted her embrace. "I'm glad you could come, Aunt Doris. But how did you know…?"

Doris pulled back and looked at her, suddenly quiet serious. "I've kept track. I'd hoped your father would come with me." She saw Cristabeth turning aside, and spoke firmly. "This can't continue on—it's not right. You have some leave time now, don't you? Go to your father. Make peace with him."

"Forget it!" Cristabeth flared. "I'm through with that man—finished. He never wanted me and I don't want him, either."

She hated her father for not being there, and she hated herself even more for _wanting_ him to be there. At that very moment she renewed her vow to cut him out of her life forever.

It was a relief when she finally left Earth. On route to her assignment, the group stopped over at Wrigley's Pleasure Planet for a well-earned shore leave. It was the perfect opportunity to go prowling. In a bar, she met an embittered young man who had recently washed out of Starfleet Academy. Something he said grabbed her attention.

"Yeah, they showed me the door. But what could I expect? They've got a hard-ass Vulcan in charge now."

"So I've heard," she remarked, and buying the washout a drink, gently pumped him for more unsavory tidbits about the academy's commandant.

Annoyingly, she found herself agreeing with Spock's assessment. The young man was definitely not Starfleet material. Even so, she enjoyed his rude comments. Before he became too drunk, she took him off to a rented room, but the encounter left her feeling empty and dissatisfied. Showering, she dressed back in her Patrol uniform and wandered the busy, garish streets of the capital alone.

oooo

One week later, Cristabeth's group of reinforcements arrived at a Starfleet base on the planet Sydok. The next day she slid into the cockpit of her very own Stinger for the first time. The games were at an end. This was it. Life or death. The realization hit the pit of her stomach like a clenched fist, and for a moment she thought she was going to throw up. Her gunner, as new to battle as Cristabeth, experienced the same urge and gave in to it. Despite repeated cleaning, the foul stench of his vomit permeated the ship for days afterward. Eventually the sickening stink wore off, but by then the fighter had gained a permanent reputation for dirtying the air. Giving in to popular opinion, Cristabeth had the offending gunner emblazon the name "Polecat" neatly across the fuselage. There was little else to do between patrols. Excursions into the Sy-Don Corridor were so uneventful, she could have hung out of the cockpit in mid-Space and decorated the ship herself. Not that she was complaining. Perhaps a little boredom _was_ preferable to death

The boredom did not last long. She was offering protective escort to a Federation starliner when a Donari marauder screamed in out of nowhere and scared the heck out of her. For an instant she froze at the controls, but then her training took over and she was in pursuit almost before her mind knew what her body was doing. Her gunner got in some close shots, but the Donari escaped damage. So did the starliner, and that was the important thing.

Upon returning to base, Cristabeth learned that another, more experienced pilot had been lost in a separate engagement. It was rumored that the Donari were planning a major incursion into their sister planet, and Starfleet was sending in some big guns. Feeling uneasy, she went to her bunk and lay down. She had taken to wearing her Vulcan dagger under the leg of her uniform. Reaching for her ankle, she slid the jade-handled weapon from its sheath and turned it slowly in her hands. Beautiful, the way it gleamed in the light from the overhead. Surely it would protect her, as it had on the trip from Vulcan to Earth when she was sixteen, and later, when the girls attacked her at Baybridge Academy. The school had turned the dagger over to her father, and not trusting her, he had kept it. After that, they had never talked about it. But when she left home, she tore his room apart until she found the dagger and reclaimed it for her own.

Cristabeth studied the obscure runes carved into the ancient jade. Guessing at their meaning had become something of a game. _"Death to the enemy"? "Success in battle"? "Long life"?_ Or even better, _"A curse on overbearing fathers who think they know everything"._ Smiling at the thought, she carefully touched her finger to the razor-sharp blade.

"Lieutenant," spoke a strangely familiar voice, "that's a wicked looking toy you have there."

Cristabeth rose so abruptly, she cracked her head on the bunk above hers. Rubbing at the pain, she stood up and wondered if she was hallucinating.

A petite Asian in fatigues snapped to attention and saluted her. "Lelia Chan, Gunner First Class, reporting for duty, sir!"

Cristabeth tossed the dagger on her bunk and joyously embraced her friend. "Lelia! What are you doing here?"

Lelia stepped back, her dark eyes gleaming. "What do you think, you Romulan pirate? I've come to join your crew!"

 _"What?"_ Cristabeth stared at her, heart pounding. All through training she had dreamt of Lelia flying with her, but confronted by the reality, she did not feel ready for that kind of responsibility. Getting yourself and a couple of near-strangers killed was one thing, but—"Lelia, no," she objected. "Stay with your own ship. I'm too green."

Lelia grinned. "Too late. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

oooo

That night Cristabeth lay awake, her mind in turmoil. What had become of her confidence? In flight school she had been so sure that she could handle anything. She could hardly wait to hit the treaty zone and blast some Donaris out of existence. Now she shook inside, thinking of what tomorrow might bring.

She must have drifted off to sleep, because a blaring alert siren jolted her from a dream. Hitting the floor, she threw on her fatigues and joined the other pilots in a heart-pounding scurry to the hangar. Adrenaline surging, she stumbled with her crew aboard the Polecat and initiated the flight sequence. Orders appeared on a screen. This was no drill. She had never been one for praying, but as she sat awaiting takeoff, a desperate plea whirled through the back of her mind. _Dear God, keep us safe…keep us safe…_

Then it was her turn. She handled the controls. Acceleration pressed her into the seat, easing off as the gravity compensator completed its adjustments. Up, up, up. The stars grew brighter as she left the confining embrace of the Sy atmosphere. And she thought, _beautiful out here…oh, no—my dagger—I forgot it…look at that, in the distance…lightning…no, phasers…a battle…looks big…_

It looked damned big.

Information was pouring in on her from all directions. Setting aside her survival instinct, she aimed her fighter at the conflict and screamed in, as if speed alone might protect her.

"Here we go," she spoke through the intercom. "Look sharp. There are a lot of our own people out here."

To Cristabeth, it looked like a swarm of Ildaran fire-gnats moving between the two planets. As she came in, one of the enemies broke away and began an offensive dive at Sydok. Cristabeth changed direction and gave chase. She saw her phaser lance toward the Donari. There was a sudden, brief flash that extinguished instantly as the debris scattered. Lelia let out a whoop.

 _First kill._ How many dead? Donari Raider—six souls aboard. Correction: six _lizards._

Cristabeth bit into her lip.

An alert sounded on her sensor grid. The Polecat was targeted. She peeled the ship into a vertical climb, and then circled down on the tail of their Donari pursuer. The co-pilot targeted this one, and an orange bolt of death streaked out, pulverizing the enemy craft.

"Nice shot," came Lelia's voice.

Chunks of wreckage pelted the fighter as Cristabeth banked hard and headed back toward the main action. She was thankful that they were traveling too fast to distinguish body parts from the other debris.

She saw a Donari take a hit and turn for the yellowish orb of its home world.

"Oh, no you don't," she declared and set off in pursuit. The Raider led her through a splendid series of evasive maneuvers as it streaked toward Donari's upper atmosphere.

She was pressing for more speed when her sensor grid sounded a double alert. "Damn," she swore. "Watch out, they're on our tail!"

An eerie light enveloped the Polecat and the fighter shuddered. Cristabeth felt the controls go leaden in her hands. For an instant she stared down at them, confused—then she realized that the ship had taken a hit.

Oblivious to the difficulties at helm, Lelia managed to destroy one of their attackers and disable the other. It was, Cristabeth soberly realized, the only reason they were still alive. But chances for their continuing survival did not look promising. With her co-pilot's assistance, she rerouted enough systems to regain partial helm control, but they lacked enough power to break free of Donari's gravity. It was unlikely that she could retain enough control to land them intact on the planet's surface, where they were heading fast—as if anyone in their right mind would _want_ to land alive on that brutal world, anyway.

Swallowing against a lump in her throat, she sent off a crash alert before announcing to the crew, "We're going down. Prepare to bail." Overwhelmed with guilt, she added, "I'm sorry."

There was silence, and then a soft spate of cursing as the co-pilot and gunner prepared.

"Hell," Lelia said, "I sure picked the wrong day to transfer. See you guys around."

Tears stung Cristabeth's eyes. Blinking them away, she concentrated on what remained to be done. They entered the lower atmosphere and the ship began to buck. She cut speed. The area into which they were descending was in broad daylight, but devoid of any population centers. At the proper altitude she wished her crew well and ejected them. She had no intention of ejecting herself. Somehow, she had to wring enough control out of helm to save the fighter. Damaged or not, it was their only chance—however remote—of ever getting back off this God-forsaken planet.

The Polecat rapidly lost stability as she pared down its speed, but it was still coming in like a bomb. The controls fought her. The desert sand rushed closer, closer. _Too fast!_ The left wing heeled over, struck the ground and sheered off. The fighter cartwheeled. There was the sound of metal ripping, a horrendous explosion, heat, and crushing pain.

Images from childhood spun through her mind as she felt her consciousness slipping. Her thoughts seized on Lelia—she had failed her friend so miserably—on Jim Kirk—a dull, empty feeling of loss. And finally, anger. _I don't want to die—not here, not like this—the very way my father predicted—_

But then her strength gave out and the blackness claimed her…


End file.
